CHAPTER V.

CELLINI'S STORY.

THE following morning at the appointed hour, I went to
Cellini's studio, and was received by him with a sort of gentle courtesy and
kindliness that became him very well. I was already beginning to experience an
increasing languor and weariness, the sure forerunner of what the artist had
prophesied—namely, a return of all my old sufferings. Amy, tired out by the
dancing of the previous night, was still in bed, as were many of those who had
enjoyed Madame Didier's fête; and the hotel was unusually
page: 108 quiet, almost seeming as though half the visitors had
departed during the night. It was a lovely morning, sunny and calm; and Cellini,
observing that I looked listless and fatigued, placed a comfortable easy-chair
for me near the window, from whence I could see one of the prettiest parterres
of the garden, gay with flowers of every colour and perfume. He himself remained
standing, one hand resting lightly on his writing-table, which was strewn with a
confusion of letters and newspapers.

“Where is Leo?” I asked, as I glanced round the room in search of that noble
animal.

“Leo left for Paris last night,” replied Cellini; “he carried an important
despatch for me, which I feared to trust to the post-office.”

“Is it safer in Leo's charge?” I inquired, smiling, for the sagacity of the dog
amused as well as interested me.

“Much safer! Leo carries on his collar
page: 109 a small
tin case, just large enough to contain several folded sheets of paper. When he
knows he has that box to guard during his journeys, he is simply unapproachable.
He would fight anyone who attempted to touch it with the ferocity of a hungry
tiger, and there is no edible dainty yet invented that could tempt his appetite
or coax him into any momentary oblivion of his duty. There is no more
trustworthy or faithful messenger.”

“I suppose you have sent him to your friend—his master,” I said.

“Yes. He has gone straight home to—Heliobas.”

This name now awakened in me no surprise or even curiosity. It simply sounded
home-like and familiar. I gazed abstractedly out of the window at the brilliant
blossoms in the garden, that nodded their heads at me like so many little elves
with coloured caps on, but I said nothing. I felt that Cellini watched
page: 110 me keenly and closely. Presently he
continued:

“Shall I tell you everything now, mademoiselle?”

I turned towards him eagerly.

“If you please,” I answered.

“May I ask you one question?”

“Certainly.”

“How and where did you hear the name of Heliobas?”

I looked up hesitatingly.

“In a dream, signor, strange to say; or rather in three dreams. I will relate
them to you.”

And I described the vision I had seen, being careful to omit no detail, for,
indeed, I remembered everything with curious distinctness.

The artist listened with grave and fixed attention. When I had concluded he
said:

“The elixir I gave you acted more potently than even I imagined it would.
page: 111 You are more sensitive than I thought. Do not
fatigue yourself any more, mademoiselle, by talking. With your permission I will
sit down here opposite to you and tell you my story. Afterwards you must decide
for yourself whether you will adopt the method of treatment to which I owe my
life, and something more than my life—my reason.”

He turned his own library-chair towards me, and seated himself. A few moments
passed in silence; his expression was very earnest and absorbed, and he regarded
my face with a sympathetic interest which touched me profoundly. Though I felt
myself becoming more and more enervated and apathetic as the time went on, and
though I knew I was gradually sinking down again into my old Slough of Despond,
yet I felt instinctively that I was somehow actively concerned in what was about
to be said, therefore I forced myself to attend closely to every word
page: 112 uttered. Cellini began to speak in low and quiet
tones as follows:

“You must be aware, mademoiselle, that those who adopt any art as a means of
livelihood begin the world heavily handicapped—weighted down, as it were, in the
race for fortune. The following of art is a very different thing to the
following of trade or mercantile business. In buying or selling, in undertaking
the work of import or export, a good head for figures, and an average quantity
of shrewd common-sense, are all that is necessary in order to win a fair share
of success. But in the finer occupations, whose results are found in sculpture,
painting, music, and poetry, demands are made upon the imagination, the
emotions, the entire spiritual susceptibility of man. The most delicate fibres
of the brain are taxed; the subtle inner working of thought are brought into
active play; and the temperament becomes daily and hourly more finely
page: 113 strung, more sensitive, more keenly alive to every
passing sensation. Of course there are many so-called “artists” who are
mere shams of the real thing; persons who, having a little surface education in
one or the other branch of the arts, play idly with the paint-brush, or dabble
carelessly in the deep waters of literature,—or borrow a few crochets and
quavers from other composers, and putting them together in haste, call it
original composition. Among these are to be found the
self-called ‘professors’ of painting; the sculptors who allow the work of their
‘ghosts’ to be admired as their own; the magazine-scribblers; the ‘smart’ young
leader-writers and critics; the half-hearted performers on piano or violin who
object to any innovation, and prefer to grind on in the unemotional, coldly
correct manner which they are pleased to term ‘the classical’—such persons
exist, and will exist, so long as good and evil are leading
page: 114 forces of life. They are the aphides on the rose of art. But the men and women I speak of as
artists are those who work day and night to attain even a small
degree of perfection, and who are never satisfied with their own best efforts. I
was one of these some years ago, and I humbly assert myself still to be of the
same disposition; only the difference between myself then and
myself now is, that then I struggled blindly and
despairingly, and now I labour patiently and with calmness, knowing
positively that I shall obtain what I seek at the duly appointed hour. I was
educated as a painter, mademoiselle, by my father, a good, simple-hearted man,
whose little landscapes looked like bits cut out of the actual field and
woodland, so fresh and pure were they. But I was not content to follow in the
plain path he first taught me to tread. Merely correct drawing, merely correct
colouring, were not sufficient for my ambition. I had dazzled
page: 115 my eyes with the loveliness of Correggio's ‘Madonna,’
and had marvelled at the wondrous blue of her robe—a blue so deep and intense
that I used to think that one might scrape away the paint till a hole was bored
in the canvas and yet not reach the end of that fathomless azure tint; I had
studied the warm hues of Titian; I had felt ready to float away in the air with
the marvellous ‘Angel of the Annunciation’—and with all these thoughts in me,
how could I content myself with the ordinary aspiration of modern artists? I
grew absorbed in one subject—Colour. I noted how lifeless and pale the colouring
of to-day appeared beside that of the old masters, and I meditated deeply on the
problem thus presented to me. What was the secret of Correggio—of Fra
Angelico—of Raphael? I tried various experiments; I bought the most expensive
and highly guaranteed pigments. In vain, for they were all adulterated by the
dealers! Then
page: 116 I obtained colours in the rough,
and ground and mixed them myself; still, though a little better result was
obtained, I found trade adulteration still at work with the oils, the varnishes,
the mediums—in fact, with everything that painters use to gain effect in their
works. I could nowhere escape from vicious dealers, who, to gain a miserable
percentage on every article sold, are content to be among the most dishonest men
in this dishonest age.

“I assure you, mademoiselle, that not one of the pictures which are now being
painted for the salons of Paris and London can possibly last a hundred years. I
recently visited that Palace of Art, the South Kensington Museum, in London, and
saw there a large fresco by Sir Frederick Leighton. It had just been completed,
I was informed. It was already fading! Within a few years it will be a blur of
indistinct outlines. I compared its
page: 117 condition
with the cartoons of Raphael, and a superb Giorgione in the same building; these
were as warm and bright as though recently painted. It is not Leighton's fault
that his works are doomed to perish as completely off the canvas as though he
had never traced them; it is his dire misfortune, and that of every other
nineteenth-century painter, thanks to the magnificent institution of free trade,
which has resulted in a vulgar competition of all countries and all classes to
see which can most quickly jostle the other out of existence. But I am wearying
you, mademoiselle—pardon me! To resume my own story. As I told you, I could
think of nothing but the one subject of Colour; it haunted me incessantly. I saw
in my dreams visions of exquisite forms and faces that I longed to transfer to
my canvas, but I could never succeed in the attempt. My hand seemed to have lost
all skill. About this time my father died,
page: 118 and
I, having no other relation in the world, and no ties of home to cling to, lived
in utter solitude, and tortured my brain more and more with the one question
that baffled and perplexed me. I became moody and irritable; I avoided
intercourse with every one, and at last sleep forsook my eyes. Then came a
terrible season of feverish trouble, nervous dejection and despair. At times I
would sit silently brooding; at others I started up and walked rapidly for
hours, in the hope to calm the wild unrest that took possession of my brain. I
was then living in Rome, in the studio that had been my father's. One
evening—how well I remember it!—I was attacked by one of those fierce impulses
that forbade me to rest or think or sleep, and as usual, I hurried out for one
of those long aimless excursions I had latterly grown accustomed to. At the open
street-door stood the proprietress of the house, a stout, good-
page: 119 natured contadina, with her youngest child Pippa
holding to her skirt. As she saw me approaching, she started back with an
exclamation of alarm, and catching the little girl up in her arms, she made the
sign of the cross rapidly. Astonished at this, I paused in my hasty walk, and
said with as much calmness as I could muster:

“‘What do you mean by that? Have I the evil-eye, think you?’

“Curly-haired Pippa stretched out her arms to me—I had often caressed the little
one, and given her sweetmeats and toys—but her mother held her back with a sort
of smothered scream and muttered:

“‘Holy Virgin! Pippa must not touch him; he is mad!’

“Mad? I looked at the woman and child in scornful amazement. Then without further
words I turned and went swiftly away down the street out of their sight. Mad!
Was I indeed losing my reason? Was this the terrific meaning of
page: 120 my sleepless nights, my troubled thoughts, my strange
inquietude? Fiercely I strode along, heedless whither I was going, till I found
myself suddenly on the borders of the desolate Campagna. A young moon gleamed
aloft, looking like a slender sickle thrust into the heavens to reap an
over-abundant harvest of stars. I paused irresolutely. There was a deep silence
everywhere. I felt faint and giddy; curious flashes of light danced past my
eyes, and my limbs shook like those of a palsied old man. I sank upon a stone to
rest, to try and arrange my scattered ideas into some sort of connection and
order. Mad! I clasped my aching head between my hands, and brooded on the
fearful prospect looming before me, and in the words of poor King Lear, I prayed
in my heart:
“‘O let me not be mad, not mad, sweet heavens!’

“Prayer! There was another thought. How could I pray?
For I was a sceptic.
page: 121 My father had educated me
with broadly materialistic views; he himself was a follower of Voltaire, and
with his finite rod he took the measure of Divinity, greatly to his own
satisfaction. He was a good man, too, and he died with exemplary calmness in the
absolute certainty of there being nothing in his composition but dust, to which
he was bound to return. He had not a shred of belief in anything but what he
called the Universal Law of Necessity; perhaps this was why all his pictures
lacked inspiration. I accepted his theories without thinking much about them,
and I had managed to live respectably without any religious belief. But
now—now with the horrible phantom of madness
rising before me—my firm nerves quailed. I tried, I longed to pray.
Yet to whom? To what? To the Universal Law of Necessity? In that there could be
no hearing or answering of human petitions. I meditated on this with a
page: 122 kind of sombre ferocity. Who
portioned out this Law of Necessity? What brutal Code compels us to be born, to
live, to suffer, and to die without recompense or reason? Why should this
Universe be an ever-circling Wheel of Torture? Then a fresh impetus came to me.
I rose from my recumbent posture and stood erect; I trembled no more. A curious
sensation of defiant amusement possessed me so violently that I laughed aloud.
Such a laugh, too! I recoiled from the sound, as from a blow, with a shudder. It
was the laugh of—a madman! I thought no more; I was resolved. I would fulfill
the grim Law of Necessity to its letter. If Necessity caused my birth, it also
demanded my death. Necessity could not force me to live against my will. Slowly
and deliberately I took from my vest a Milanese dagger of thin sharp steel—one
that I always carried with me as a means
page: 123 of
self-defence—I drew it from its sheath, and looked at the fine edge glittering
coldly in the pallid moon-rays. I kissed it joyously; it was my final remedy! I
poised it aloft with firm fingers—another instant and it would have been buried
deep in my heart, when I felt a powerful grasp on my wrist, and a strong arm
struggling with mine forced the dagger from my hand. Savagely angry at being
thus foiled in my desperate intent, I staggered back a few paces and sullenly
stared at my rescuer. He was a tall man, clad in a dark overcoat bordered with
fur; he looked very like a wealthy Englishman or American travelling for
pleasure. His features were fine and commanding; his eyes gleamed with a gentle
disdain as he coolly met my resentful gaze. When he spoke his vice was rich and
mellifluous, though his accents had a touch in them of grave scorn.

“‘So you are tired of your life, young
page: 124 man. All
the more reason have you to live. Anyone can die. A murderer has moral force
enough to jeer at his hangman. It is very easy to draw the last breath. It can
be accomplished successfully by a child or a warrior. One pang of far less
anguish than the toothache, and all is over. There is nothing heroic about it, I
assure you! It is as common as going to bed; it is almost prosy.
Life is heroism, if you like; but death is a mere cessation of
business. And to make a rapid and rude exit off the stage before the prompter
gives the sign is always, to say the least of it, ungraceful. Act the part out,
no matter how bad the play. What say you?’

“And, balancing the dagger lightly on one finger, as though it were a
paper-knife, he smiled at me with so much frank kindliness that it was
impossible to resist him. I advanced and held out my hand.

page: 125

“‘Whoever you are,’ I said, ‘you speak like a true man. But you are ignorant of
the causes which compelled me to—’ and a hard sob choked my utterance. My new
acquaintance pressed my proffered hand cordially, but the gravity of his tone
did not vary as he replied:

“‘There is no cause, my friend, which compels us to take violent leave of
existence, unless it be madness or cowardice.’

“‘Aye! and what if it were madness?’ I asked him eagerly. He scanned me
attentively, and laying his fingers lightly on my wrist, felt my pulse.

“‘Pooh, my dear sir!’ he said; ‘you are no more mad than I am. You are a little
over-wrought and excited—that I admit. You have some mental worry that consumes
you. You shall tell me all about it. I have no doubt I can cure you in a few
days.’

“Cure me? I looked at him in wonderment and doubt.

page: 126

“‘Are you a physician?’ I asked.

He laughed. ‘Not I! I should be sorry to belong to the profession. Yet I
administer medicines and give advice in certain cases. I am simply a remedial
agent—not a doctor. But why do we stand here in this bleak place, which must be
peopled by the ghosts of olden heroes? Come with me, will you? I am going to the
Hôtel Costanza, and we can talk there. As for this pretty toy, permit me to
return it to you. You will not force it again to the unpleasant task of
despatching its owner.’

“And he handed the dagger back to me with a slight bow. I sheathed it at once,
feeling somewhat like a chidden child, as I met the slightly satirical gleam of
the clear blue eyes that watched me.

“‘Will you give me your name, signor?’ I asked, as we turned from the Campagna
towards the city.

“‘With pleasure. I am called Heliobas.
page: 127 A
strange name? Oh, not at all! It is pure Chaldee. My mother—as lovely an Eastern
houri as Murillo's Madonna, and as devout as Santa Teresa—gave me the Christian
saint's name of Casimir also, but Heliobas pur et
simple suits me best, and by it I am generally known.’

“‘You are a Chaldean?’ I inquired.

“‘Exactly so. I am descended directly from one of those “wise men of the East”
(and, by the way, there were more than three, and they were not all kings), who,
being wide awake, happened to notice the birth-star of Christ on the horizon
before the rest of the word's inhabitants had so much as rubbed their sleepy
eyes. The Chaldeans have been always quick of observation from time immemorial.
But in return for my name, you will favour me with yours?’

“I gave it readily, and we walked on together. I felt wonderfully calmed and
cheered—as soothed, mademoiselle. I
page: 128 have
noticed you yourself have felt when in my company.”

Here Cellini paused, and looked at me as though expecting a question; but I
preferred to remain silent till I had heard all he had to say. He therefore
resumed:

“We reached the Hôtel Costanza, where Heliobas was evidently well known. The
waiters addressed him as Monsieur le Comte; but he gave me no information as to
this title. He had a superb suite of rooms in the hotel, furnished with every
modern luxury; and as soon as we entered, a light supper was served. He invited
me to partake, and within the space of half an hour I had told him all my
history—my ambition—my strivings after the perfection of colour—my
disappointment, dejection, and despair—and, finally, the fearful dread of coming
madness that had driven me to attempt my own life. He listened patiently and
with unbroken attention. When I had
page: 129 finished,
he laid one hand on my shoulder, and said gently:

“‘Young man, pardon me if I say that up to the present your career has been an
inactive, useless, selfish “kicking against the pricks,” as St. Paul says. You
set before yourself a task of noble effort, namely, to discover the secret of
colouring as known to the old masters; and because you meet with the petty
difficulty of modern trade adulteration in your materials, you think that there
is no chance—that all is lost. Fie! Do you think Nature is over-come by a few
dishonest traders! She can still give you in abundance the unspoilt colours she
gave to Raphael and Titian; but not in haste—not if you vulgarly scramble for
her gifts in a mood that is impatient of obstacle and delay. Ohne häst, ohne räst,” is the motto of the stars.
Learn it well. You have injured your bodily health by useless fretfulness and
peevish discontent, and with that we have
page: 130
first to deal. In a week's time, I will make a sound, sane man of you; and then
I will teach you how to get the colours you seek—yes!’ he added, smiling, ‘even
to the compassing of Correggio's blue.’

“I could not speak for joy and gratitude; I grasped my friend and preserver by
the hand. We stood thus together for a brief interval, when suddenly Heliobas
drew himself up to the full stateliness of his height and bent his calm eyes
deliberately upon me. A strange thrill ran through me; I still held his
hand.

“‘Rest!’ he said in slow and emphatic tones. ‘Weary and over-wrought frame, take
thy full and needful measure of repose! Struggling and deeply injured spirit, be
free of thy narrow prison! By that Force which I acknowledge within me and thee
and in all created things, I command thee, rest!’

“Fascinated, awed, overcome by his manner, I gazed at him and would have
page: 131 spoken, but my tongue refused its office—my
senses swam—my eyes closed—my limbs gave way—I fell senseless.”

Cellini again paused and looked at me. Intent on his words, I would not interrupt
him. He went on:

“When I say senseless, mademoiselle, I allude of course to my body. But I,
myself—that is, my soul—was conscious; I lived, I moved, I heard, I saw. Of that
experience I am forbidden to speak. When I returned to mortal existence I found
myself lying on a couch in the same room where I had supped with Heliobas, and
Heliobas himself sat near me reading. It was broad noonday. A delicious sense of
tranquility and youthful buoyancy was upon me, and without speaking I sprang up
from my recumbent position and touched him on the arm. He looked up.

“‘Well?’ he asked, and his eyes smiled.

“I seized his hand, and pressed it reverently to my lips.

page: 132

“‘My best friend!’ I exclaimed. ‘What wonders have I not seen—what truths have I
not learned—what mysteries!’

“‘On all these things be silent,’ replied Heliobas. ‘They must not be lightly
spoken of. And of the questions you naturally desire to ask me, you shall have
the answers in due time. What has happened to you is not extraordinary; you have
simply been acted upon by scientific means. But your cure is not yet complete. A
few days more passed with me will restore you thoroughly. Will you consent to
remain so long in my company?’

“Gladly and gratefully I consented, and we spent the next ten days together,
during which Heliobas administered to me certain remedies, external and
internal, which had a marvellous effect in renovating and invigorating my
system. By the expiration of that time I was strong and well—a sound and sane
man as my
page: 133 rescuer had promised I should be—my
brain was fresh and eager for work, and my mind was filled with new and grand
ideas of art. And I had gained through Heliobas two inestimable things—a full
comprehension of the truth of religion, and the secret of human destiny; and I
had won a love so exquisite!”

Here Cellini paused, and his eyes were uplifted in a sort of wondering rapture.
He continued after a pause:

“Yes, mademoiselle, I discovered that I was loved, and watched over and guided by
One so divinely beautiful, so gloriously faithful, that mortal
language fails before the description of such perfection!”

He paused again, and again continued:

“When he found me perfectly healthy again in mind and body, Heliobas showed me
his art of mixing colours. From that hour all my works were successful. You know
that my pictures are eagerly
page: 134 purchased as soon
as completed, and that the colour I obtain in them is to the world a mystery
almost magical. Yet there is not one among the humblest of artists who could not
if he chose make use of the same means as I have done to gain the nearly
imperishable hues that still glow on the canvases of Raphael. But of this there
is no need to speak just now. I have told you my story, mademoiselle, and it now
rests with me to apply its meaning to yourself. You are attending?”

“Perfectly,” I replied; and, indeed, my interest at this point was so strong,
that I could almost hear the expectant beating of my heart. Cellini resumed:

“Electricity, mademoiselle, is, as you are aware, the wonder of our age. No end
can be foreseen to the marvels it is capable of accomplishing. But one of the
most important branches of this great science is ignorantly derided just now by
the larger portion of society—I mean the
page: 135 use
of human electricity; that force which is in each one of us—in you and in me—and
to a very great extent, in Heliobas. He has cultivated the electricity in his
own system to such an extent that his mere touch, his lightest glance, have
healing in them, or the reverse, as he chooses to exert his power—I may say it
is never the reverse, for he is full of kindness, sympathy and pity for all
humanity. His influence is so great that he can, without speaking, by his mere
presence suggest his own thoughts to other people who are perfect strangers, and
cause them to design and carry out certain actions in accordance with his plans.
You are incredulous? Mademoiselle, this power is in every one of us, only we do
not cultivate it, because our education is yet so imperfect. To prove the truth
of what I say, I, though I have only advanced a little way in the
cultivation of my own electric force, even I have influenced
you. You cannot deny
page: 136 it. By
my thought, impelled to you, you saw clearly my picture that was actually
veiled. By my force, you replied correctly to a question I asked
you concerning that same picture. By my desire, you gave me,
without being aware of it, a message from one I love when you said, ‘Dieu vous garde!’ You remember? And the elixir I
gave you, which is one of the simplest remedies discovered by Heliobas, had the
effect of making you learn what he intended you to learn—his name.”

“He!” I exclaimed. “Why, he does not know me—he can have no intentions towards
me!”

“Mademoiselle,” replied Cellini gravely, “if you will think again of the last of
your three dreams, you will not doubt that he has intentions
towards you. As I told you, he is a physical electrician. By that
is meant a great deal. He knows by instinct whether he is or will be needed
sooner or later. Let me finish what I
page: 137 have to
say. You are ill, mademoiselle—ill from over-work. You are an improvisatrice—that is, you have the emotional
genius of music, a spiritual thing unfettered by rules, and utterly
misunderstood by the world. You cultivate this faculty, regardless of cost; you
suffer, and you will suffer more. In proportion as your powers in music grow, so
will your health decline. Go to Heliobas; he will do for you what he did for me.
Surely you will not hesitate? Between years of weak invalidism and perfect
health in less than a fortnight, there can be no question of choice.”

I rose from my seat slowly.

“Where is this Heliobas?” I asked. “In Paris?”

“Yes, in Paris. If you decide to go there, take my advice, and go alone. You can
easily make some excuse to your friends. I will give you the address of a
ladies' Pension, where you will be made
page: 138 at home and comfortable. May I do this?”

“If you please,” I answered.

He wrote rapidly in pencil on a card of his own:

“MADAME DENISE,

“36 Avenue du Midi,

“Paris,”

and handed it to me. I stood still where I had risen, thinking deeply. I had been
impressed and somewhat startled by Cellini's story; but I was in no way alarmed
at the idea of trusting myself to a physical electrician such as Heliobas
professed to be. I knew that that there were many cases of serious illness being
cured by means of electricity—that electric baths and electric appliances of all
descriptions were in ordinary use; and I saw no reason to be surprised at the
fact of a man being in existence who had cultivated electric force within
himself to
page: 139 such an extent that he was able to
use it as a healing power. There seemed to me to be really nothing extraordinary
in it. The only part of Cellini's narration I did not credit was the
soul-transmigration he professed to have experienced; and I put that down to
over-excitement of his imagination at the time of his first interview with
Heliobas. But I kept this thought to myself. In any case, I resolved to go to
Paris. The great desire of my life was to be in perfect health, and I determined
to omit no means of obtaining this inestimable blessing. Cellini watched me as I
remained standing before him in silent abstraction.

“Will you go?” he inquired at last.

“Yes; I will go,” I replied. “But will you give me a letter to your friend?”

“Leo has taken it and all necessary explanations already,” said Cellini, smiling;
“I knew you would go. Heliobas expects you the day after to-morrow. His
resi-
residence
page: 140 dence is Hôtel Mars, Champs Élysées.
You are not angry with me, mademoiselle? I could not help knowing that you would
go.”

I smiled faintly.

“Electricity again, I suppose! No, I am not angry. Why should I be? I thank you
very much, signor, and I shall thank you more if Heliobas indeed effects my
cure.”

“Oh, that is certain, positively certain,” answered Cellini; “you can indulge
that hope as much as you like, mademoiselle, for it is one that cannot be
disappointed. Before you leave me, you will look at your own picture, will you
not?” and, advancing to his easel, he uncovered it.

I was greatly surprised. I thought he had but traced the outline of my features,
whereas the head was almost completed. I looked at it as I would look at the
portrait of a stranger. It was a wistful, sad-
page: 141
eyed, plaintive face, and on the pale gold of the hair rested a coronal of
lilies.

“It will soon be finished,” said Cellini, covering the easel again; “I shall not
need another sitting, which is fortunate, as it is so necessary for you to go
away. And now will you look at ‘Life and Death’ once more?”

I raised my eyes to the grand picture, unveiled that day in all its beauty.

“The face of the Life-Angel there,” went on Cellini quietly, “is a poor and
feeble resemblance of the One I love. You knew I was betrothed,
mademoiselle?

I felt confused, and was endeavouring to find an answer to this when he
continued:

“Do not trouble to explain, for I know how you knew.
But no more of this. Will you leave Cannes to-morrow?”

“Yes. In the morning.”

“Then good-bye, mademoiselle. Should I never see you again—”

page: 142

“Never see me again!” I interrupted. “Why, what do you mean?”

“I do not allude to your destinies, but to mine,” he
said, with a kindly look. “My business may call me away from here before you
come back—our paths may lie apart—many circumstances may occur to prevent our
meeting—so that, I repeat, should I never see you again, you will, I hope, bear
me in your friendly remembrance as one who was sorry to see you suffer, and who
was the humble means of guiding you to renewed health and happiness.”

I held out my hand, and my eyes filled with tears. There was something so gentle
and chivalrous about him, and withal so warm and sympathetic, that I felt indeed
as if I were bidding adieu to one of the truest friends I should ever have in my
life.

“I hope nothing will cause you to leave Cannes till I return to it,” I said with
real
page: 143 earnestness. “I should like you to
judge of my restoration to health.”

“There will be no need for that,” he replied; “I shall know when you are quite
recovered through Heliobas.”

He pressed my hand warmly.

“I brought back the book you lent me,” I went on; “but I should like a copy of it
for myself. Can I get it anywhere?”

“Heliobas will give you one with pleasure,” replied Cellini; “you have only to
make the request. The book is not on sale. It was printed for private
circulation only. And now, mademoiselle, we part. I congratulate you on the
comfort and joy awaiting you in Paris. Do not forget the address—Hôtel Mars,
Champs Élysées. Farewell!”

And again shaking my hand cordially, he stood at his door watching me as I passed
out and began to ascend the stairs leading to my room. On the landing I
page: 144 paused, and, looking round, saw him still
there. I smiled and waved my hand. He did the same in response, once—twice; then
turning abruptly, disappeared.

That afternoon I explained to Colonel and Mrs. Everard that I had resolved to
consult a celebrated physician in Paris (whose name, however, I did not
mention), and should go there alone for a few days. On hearing that I knew of
well-recommended ladies' Pension they made no
objection to my arrangements, and they agreed to remain at the Hôtel de L— till
I returned. I gave them no details of my plans, and of course never mentioned
Raffaello Cellini in connection with the matter. A nervous and wretchedly
agitated night made me more than ever determined to try the means of cure
proposed to me. At ten o'clock the following morning I left Cannes by express
train for Paris. Just before starting I noticed that the lilies of the valley
Cellini had given
page: 145 me for the dance had, in
spite of my care, entirely withered, and were already black with decay—so black
that they looked as though they had been scorched by a flash of lightning.